


cienfuegos

by novoaa1



Series: chance encounters [1]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Age Difference, F/F, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, enemies with benefits. sort of, it's complicated - Freeform, it's like one second theyre fighting and then BOOM sexy times, their dynamic is a lil toxic and unconventional, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24977062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Yelena is many things—skilled, formidable… but above all else,young.She’s young still; her anger is fervid and igneous and unchecked, and it’s going to kill her one of these days if she’s not careful.(But not at Natalia’s hands.Neverat Natalia’s hands.)
Relationships: Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanov
Series: chance encounters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809355
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	cienfuegos

**Author's Note:**

> dude i've been reading some yelena x nat fics over the weekend and there aren't a ton but there a couple pieces that i'm absolutely FLOORED with like i dig them so much and the writing goes so hard 
> 
> and anyways i felt all guilty that i was only reading them and there were still so relatively little of these so 
> 
> here we are 
> 
> i made yelena a mix between comic verse and movie verse (cause i'm still a little 0_o that they're trying to make yelena and nat's dynamic in the movieverse super super emphatic on a 'sisterly' relationship)
> 
> but anyways

**Cienfuegos, 1993**

Punch to the face. Knee to the left kidney. 

Golden strands smeared with copper-scented blood, hair spun from silken stardust. 

Catlike eyes—murky hazel speckled with traces of ocean-blue; a wolfish grin baring blood-stained teeth. 

An open wound that never stops bleeding. 

Pinning the younger woman to the floor, straddling a pair of slim hips she fears she knows better than her own; bisque-blonde locks splayed across the cluttered hardwood, clouded hazel eyes flaring with murderous intent from beneath her. 

A twist of the hips, a blur of motion. 

Her back hits the floor. Shards of glass piercing the thin material of her suit, digging between her shoulder blades.

A knife to her throat. A cautious glimmer of carnal indulgence in hazelnut eyes that watch her voraciously from above; a husked growl when Natalia’s blade presses just so beneath her ribcage, leveled against her with the promise of death. 

“Third time this month,” Natalia muses blandly, more than contented enough to indulge the blade against her trachea so long as her own remains where it should. “I’m flattered.”

“Then you are a fool.” Yelena snarls—a rabid, virulent thing. Her English is stilted but passable, choked with Russian influence—a sharp contrast to Natalia’s languorous American inflection, one she’d painstakingly curated over a decade’s worth of acuity. “There is only one way this ends, Natalia. You know that as well as I."

Blood dribbles down her chin from a gaping split in her lower lip, and Natalia hungers to lap it up with her tongue. 

“Do I?” she challenges instead. Yelena’s blade bites harder against her throat; a trickle of blood nears the trapezius musculature of her neck, and she does not press her own blade any harder against Yelena’s gut in retaliation. “Tell me, _Rooskaya_ —how does it end?” 

Yelena’s nostrils flare, the muscles in her clenched jaw working double time even as Natalia watches. “You kill me, or I kill you.”

Natalia doesn’t deny her that. “Maybe,” she concedes, then leans up despite the way it has Yelena’s blade gnawing further into her broken flesh, drawing ever nearer until they’re a mere hair’s breadth apart. 

Yelena is perfectly still above her all the while, taut and poised, like a cornered animal waiting to pounce. 

She says nothing, and Natalia acts in tandem:

No taunt, no satirical repartee—nothing but profoundly overfed silence as Natalia’s lips brush hers, a tongue flickering out to taste coppery blood smeared across Yelena’s swollen lips. This tenderness (read: weakness) between them lasts only a second too long before Natalia’s lips slam against hers in a bruising kiss, and Yelena is responding fervently in kind.

Knives clatter to the floor, one right after the other. Natalia pays them no mind. 

Rather, she reaches to tangle tawny-gold locks in her bloodied hands. Consequently, she is not by any stretch of the imagination surprised when Yelena’s fingers curl around her wrists to stop her mid-motion, calloused palms slamming them back down into the hardwood over her head.

(Were it anyone else, she’d kill them for that alone—a foreign grip encircling her wrists, the lecherous will of another pinning her to the floor, an iron-clad hold all too similar to that of a cool metal handcuff keeping her bound till morning.

She’d certainly slaughtered men for less.)

She surrenders to it, to Yelena’s bruising grasp around her wrists and the woman’s less experienced tongue plundering her willing mouth like this is carnage rather than pleasure—both because it stokes the flames of her own desire that roar low in her belly, and because she understands that Yelena _needs_ this. 

She needs the control (or at least, the illusion of it), because Natalia has defined her since the very start—measuring up, contesting her scores… _becoming_ her. 

Everything Yelena Belova is, everything she’s become, is because of Natalia—who she was, the legacy she created (no matter how unwittingly)… the vestiges of her that persisted even long after she left. 

(Natalia knows it, and what’s more: Yelena knows that Natalia knows it. 

It makes Yelena sullen on some days and outright furious on most, even if she’ll never say it aloud.)

That’s another part of it, too: that Yelena begrudges her for leaving. Resents her for burning the Voronezh division into an ugly black, fleeing into the pitch-dark night and never turning back. For deserting long before she had the chance to _become_ her.

Yelena is many things—skilled, formidable… but above all else, _young_.

She’s young still. Her anger is fervid and igneous and unchecked, and it’s going to kill her one of these days if she’s not careful. 

(But not at Natalia’s hands. _Never_ at Natalia’s hands.)

Regardless—until then, they’re here: alive, bleeding and embittered, filled twice over with regret and some twisted sort of fealty and a million other things Natalia can’t quite name (doesn’t _dare_ to try and name).

They’re here: Natalia writhing stark naked beneath a fully-clothed Yelena upon a hotel mattress that reeks of cigar smoke and gunpowder, arching willfully into Yelena’s bruising touch—surrendering to the harsh and vulgar intimacy that feels more like punishment than anything else. 

They’re here, and that is okay. (For now.)

☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥ ☥

**Author's Note:**

> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass cause i'm on there a lot more often)


End file.
